Read Online Once Craved (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #3) by Blake Pierce - Free Book Online
Authors: Blake Pierce
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and tormented both her and April. He was
shrewd and poised, and he thoroughly enjoyed killing—a sociopath rather than a
psychopath. Above all else, he was confident.
Maybe too
confident for his own good, Riley thought.
It might well prove
to be his downfall.
She said, “The guy
we’re looking for isn’t some criminal lowlife. My guess is he’s an ordinary
citizen, reasonably well-educated, maybe with a wife and family. Nobody who
knows him thinks he’s a killer.”
Riley watched
Holbrook’s face as they talked. Although she now knew something about the case
she hadn’t known before, Holbrook still struck her as utterly impenetrable.
The helicopter
circled over the FBI building. Twilight had fallen and the area below was well
lighted.
“Look there,” Bill
said, pointing out the window.
Riley looked down
where he pointed. She was surprised to see that from here the rock garden
looked like a gigantic fingerprint. It spread out beneath them like a welcome
sign. Some offbeat landscaper had decided that this image arranged out of stone
was better suited for the new FBI building than a planted garden would have
been. Hundreds of substantial stones had been carefully placed in curving rows
to create the ridged illusion.
“Wow,” Riley said to
Bill. “Whose fingerprint do you suppose they used? Someone legendary, I guess.
Dillinger, maybe?”
“Or maybe John Wayne
Gacy. Or Jeffrey Dahmer.”
Riley thought it a
strange spectacle. On the ground, no one would ever guess that the arrangement
of stones was anything more than a meaningless maze.
It struck her almost
as a sign and a warning. This case was going to demand that she view things
from a new and unsettling perspective. She was about to probe regions of
darkness that not even she had imagined.
Chapter Nine
The man enjoyed
watching streetwalkers. He liked how they grouped on the corner and pranced up
and down the sidewalks, mostly in pairs. He found them to be much feistier than
call girls and escorts, prone to easily losing their temper.
For example, right
now, he saw one cursing a bunch of uncouth young guys in a slow-moving vehicle
for taking her picture. The man didn’t blame her one bit. After all, she was
here to do business, not to serve as scenery.
Where’s their
respect? he
thought with a smirk. Kids these days.
Now the guys were
laughing at her and yelling obscenities. But they couldn’t match her colorful
retorts, some of them in Spanish. He liked her style.
He was slumming
tonight, parked along a row of cheap motels where streetwalkers gathered. The
other girls were less vivacious than the one who had done the cursing. Their
attempts at sexiness looked awkward by comparison, and their come-ons were
crude. As he watched, one hiked up her skirt to show her skimpy underpants to
the driver of a slowly passing car. The driver didn’t stop.
He kept his eye on
the girl who had first drawn his attention. She was stomping around
indignantly, complaining to the other girls.
The man knew he
could have her if he wanted her. She could be his next victim. All he had to do
to get her attention was to drive along the curb toward her.
But no, he wouldn’t
do that. He never did that. He’d never approach a hooker on the street. It was
up to her to approach him. It was the same even with whores he met through a
service or a brothel. He’d get them to meet him alone somewhere separately
without ever asking directly. It would seem like their idea.
With some luck, the
feisty girl would notice his expensive car and trot right on over. His car was
wonderful bait. So was the fact that he dressed well.
But however the
night ended, he had to be more careful than last time. He’d been sloppy,
dropping her body over that ledge and expecting her to sink.
And such a stir she
had created! An FBI agent’s sister! And they’d called in big guns from
Quantico. He didn’t like it. He wasn’t out for publicity or fame. All he wanted
to do was indulge his
shrewd and poised, and he thoroughly enjoyed killing—a sociopath rather than a
psychopath. Above all else, he was confident.
Maybe too
confident for his own good, Riley thought.
It might well prove
to be his downfall.
She said, “The guy
we’re looking for isn’t some criminal lowlife. My guess is he’s an ordinary
citizen, reasonably well-educated, maybe with a wife and family. Nobody who
knows him thinks he’s a killer.”
Riley watched
Holbrook’s face as they talked. Although she now knew something about the case
she hadn’t known before, Holbrook still struck her as utterly impenetrable.
The helicopter
circled over the FBI building. Twilight had fallen and the area below was well
lighted.
“Look there,” Bill
said, pointing out the window.
Riley looked down
where he pointed. She was surprised to see that from here the rock garden
looked like a gigantic fingerprint. It spread out beneath them like a welcome
sign. Some offbeat landscaper had decided that this image arranged out of stone
was better suited for the new FBI building than a planted garden would have
been. Hundreds of substantial stones had been carefully placed in curving rows
to create the ridged illusion.
“Wow,” Riley said to
Bill. “Whose fingerprint do you suppose they used? Someone legendary, I guess.
Dillinger, maybe?”
“Or maybe John Wayne
Gacy. Or Jeffrey Dahmer.”
Riley thought it a
strange spectacle. On the ground, no one would ever guess that the arrangement
of stones was anything more than a meaningless maze.
It struck her almost
as a sign and a warning. This case was going to demand that she view things
from a new and unsettling perspective. She was about to probe regions of
darkness that not even she had imagined.
Chapter Nine
The man enjoyed
watching streetwalkers. He liked how they grouped on the corner and pranced up
and down the sidewalks, mostly in pairs. He found them to be much feistier than
call girls and escorts, prone to easily losing their temper.
For example, right
now, he saw one cursing a bunch of uncouth young guys in a slow-moving vehicle
for taking her picture. The man didn’t blame her one bit. After all, she was
here to do business, not to serve as scenery.
Where’s their
respect? he
thought with a smirk. Kids these days.
Now the guys were
laughing at her and yelling obscenities. But they couldn’t match her colorful
retorts, some of them in Spanish. He liked her style.
He was slumming
tonight, parked along a row of cheap motels where streetwalkers gathered. The
other girls were less vivacious than the one who had done the cursing. Their
attempts at sexiness looked awkward by comparison, and their come-ons were
crude. As he watched, one hiked up her skirt to show her skimpy underpants to
the driver of a slowly passing car. The driver didn’t stop.
He kept his eye on
the girl who had first drawn his attention. She was stomping around
indignantly, complaining to the other girls.
The man knew he
could have her if he wanted her. She could be his next victim. All he had to do
to get her attention was to drive along the curb toward her.
But no, he wouldn’t
do that. He never did that. He’d never approach a hooker on the street. It was
up to her to approach him. It was the same even with whores he met through a
service or a brothel. He’d get them to meet him alone somewhere separately
without ever asking directly. It would seem like their idea.
With some luck, the
feisty girl would notice his expensive car and trot right on over. His car was
wonderful bait. So was the fact that he dressed well.
But however the
night ended, he had to be more careful than last time. He’d been sloppy,
dropping her body over that ledge and expecting her to sink.
And such a stir she
had created! An FBI agent’s sister! And they’d called in big guns from
Quantico. He didn’t like it. He wasn’t out for publicity or fame. All he wanted
to do was indulge his
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